


I Lit the Very Fuse (That You Were Tryin’ Not to Light)

by hllfire, InsertSthMeaningful



Series: Folie à Deux [2]
Category: Filth (2013), Shame (2011)
Genre: Brandon Sullivan is a Horny Sweetheart, Brandon Sullivan is having A Day, Bruce Robertson is Gay and Homophobic, Cockblocking, Facials, Getting Together, Gratuitous Scottish Vernacular, Homoerotic Tango Dancing, M/M, Moving In Together, Resolved Sexual Tension, Sexual Content, Swearing, blowjob
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-15 22:20:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28696104
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hllfire/pseuds/hllfire, https://archiveofourown.org/users/InsertSthMeaningful/pseuds/InsertSthMeaningful
Summary: After Bruce kicks him out of their shared hotel room, Brandon doesn’t expect to stumble into him again two weeks later on the streets of New York. And what he is even less prepared for is Bruce unofficially moving in with him.Then again, Brandon can’t really complain - or can he?Featuring: Bad currywurst, a stolen blanket and an excessive amount of cockblocking.
Relationships: Bruce Robertson/Brandon Sullivan
Series: Folie à Deux [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2086578
Comments: 20
Kudos: 18





	1. Lonesome Street Side Romeo

**Author's Note:**

> Steph speaking: I blame Syd for calling Bruce an opossum (can't fault them for the association though 👀). Enjoy, and don't even think about trying to figure out who of us wrote which part. And of course, a big shoutout to you, Syd 💙 Without you, I wouldn't even have watched Filth and cried my eyes out at the ending :')
> 
> Syd here: Aight, this is the actual first work we wrote together and it got so out of hand that it turned into a 2 chapter cause if we kept going god knows how long it would be. This is what happens when you put the both of us to write something (but in my opinion this turned out chef's kiss lmao). As always it was very fun to plot (and write!) these trash boys with Steph and I can't believe it came out of me pushing them to watch Filth and Shame hehehe Thank you Steph for letting me push this ship to you ❤️ Hopefully you guys will like this just as much as we did!

Brandon put on some clothes after cleaning himself hastily with the dirty laundry from his backpack, sometimes staring at the closed bathroom door as the fireworks outside finally died down. He'd rather have a shower after what had happened, but Bruce wasn't giving any signs of getting out of the bathroom any time soon, the dark stained wooden door seemingly locked shut as barely no sounds came from the other side.

Brandon clenched his jaw at the closed door, remembering Bruce's words after the kiss they had shared, the ghost of Bruce's lips still lingering on his. _Pansy,_ the Scotsman had called him; Brandon knew enough British slang to know what that meant.

It was one in the morning of January 1st when Bruce finally left the bathroom, his shirt still open but his chest clean of any and all evidence of his and Brandon's endeavors earlier. His eyes, however, seemed to burn with a dangerous fire that made Brandon stiffen his body, ready to fight or flee if needed. When Bruce smirked, it did nothing to hide that bone-gnawing anger in his eyes.

"Had yer fun, aye?" Bruce asked, his hands moving to button up his shirt. Brandon only watched, not saying a word. "I think it's time for ye tae get th' fuck out now."

"What-?"

"Are ye deaf, sunshine?" Bruce finished with his shirt, stepping closer to Brandon as this one took a step back, towards the door. "Get yer things an' fuck off."

"You can't throw me out, this is _my room as well-"_

"Woah, ye really like to gab, aye?" 

Brandon stopped talking, seeing the annoyed expression in Bruce's face as he took another step forward, making Brandon step back one more time. 

"Ah'm nae sharing mah fucking room wi' a fucking buftie."

Bruce took another step forward, Brandon stepped back, not needing much context to understand what _buftie_ meant. His face hardened immediately, his words coming out as a growl as he spat them out.

"You were the one who asked me to jerk off above you, you asshole."

Brandon felt the air getting knocked out of him when, suddenly, Bruce snapped forward, grabbed him by his shirt collar and pushed him up against the door aggressively - he was faster than he looked, stronger as well, his frame more sturdy than Brandon's. Bruce's breath smelled of alcohol, warm against Brandon's face as they stared at each other closely.

Brandon's hands held the Scotsman's wrists tightly, trying to make him loosen his grip as he pressed his thumbs into the joints, but to no avail. Bruce had latched onto him, and the pressure around his wrists only made him get closer to Brandon, their bodies now touching. Despite himself, Brandon felt arousal kindle in the pit of his stomach at the rough treatment.

"Ye were th' slut who came all over mah chest, sunshine." Bruce’s voice sounded strangely calm, even though his hands were grabbing Brandon's shirt and his eyes were still filled with that fire, not wavering once. "Ye're a nice lad, I'll give ye 'at. I'll give ye th' chance to leave without a fight."

"I'm _not_ leaving." 

The smile that appeared on Bruce's lips after those words didn't help to put Brandon at ease, feeling the Scotsman's fists press a little tighter against his collarbones - sure to leave bruises - making him curse himself in his mind for enjoying it more than he should.

When Brandon's phone rang by the bed, both their heads snapped around at the sound, the hostile tension forgotten for a second.

Brandon managed to get rid of Bruce's grip with the distraction, the Scotsman's hands loosening a bit and allowing him to slip away from him and push him back. He was by the phone before Bruce could get to him and picked the device up. His lips pressed into a tight line when he saw Sissy's name on the display, her annoyingly chipper ringtone filling the now quiet room as he refused to pick up. As if he needed his sister to make his night more chaotic than it already was.

 _Happy New Year, Brandon,_ he said to himself, sighing before picking up the call and putting the phone to his ear.

"Oh, so you are alive," Sissy's voice rang immediately through the speaker as Brandon pursed his lips. "Happy New Year, Brandon."

"What is it, Sissy?"

He looked back at Bruce after saying her name, seeing the other man move with hesitant steps around Brandon, eyes narrowed as he clearly took interest in the conversation going on. For some reason, Brandon couldn't help but remember the opossums he would sometimes see roaming the dumpsters behind his apartment building - if Bruce bared his teeth, the image would be complete. On the phone, Sissy sighed.

"I'm leaving your apartment," she said, and the hurt in her voice made Brandon almost feel guilty. The feeling, however, left the moment she said her next words. "He- He called me just now. Wants me back."

Brandon knew who _"he"_ was: the lover Sissy so desperately tried to keep, the one who kept throwing her away over and over again. He wanted to scream that she was being naive, that she should just stop running to that guy when he clearly didn't want her around if the amount of times they broke up and made up again was any indication, but what could Brandon say on that when he was doing basically the same thing to her - his hypocrisy could do with being kept to himself, he guessed. 

Thankfully, he didn't need to say anything. Sissy was already talking again.

"Since I'm leaving I wondered if you wouldn't want me to wait up for you so I can give you a New Year’s hug?" 

"I don't think I'll be able to make it to the apartment before you leave." Brandon’s voice sounded strained even to himself as he grappled for an excuse, not wanting to deny her so bluntly. "Don't wait for me, just lock the door when you leave."

"I can wait for a while-"

"There's no need, Sissy." He closed his eyes, almost able to see her hurt expression. "You can go to your boyfriend, just don't leave a mess in my apartment."

Bruce, who had been observing him with narrowed eyes and a stance that made him look like he seemed ready to pounce on Brandon at any second, apparently realized who he was talking to at that moment. His expression shifted, the fire in his eyes dying down as his body language grew less offensive, and he took a step back from Brandon. He remembered the Scotsman having a similar reaction the day before when he had mentioned Sissy, making him frown as he tried to understand why Bruce looked so affected by his sister.

"Alright then," Sissy said on the phone, bringing Brandon's attention back to her. "I'll see you around, I guess."

She turned off the call when she noticed Brandon wouldn't stay anything back. As he put down the device, the screen now turned off before he pocketed it, Bruce seemed to study him carefully, probably planning his next move. Brandon didn't allow him to do anything else, shooting him a grin and seeing Bruce tilt his head slightly in confusion at the other man's action.

"You know, I don't want to be in this shitty hotel anymore, let alone with you." Brandon did his best to make his voice sound like the decision to leave was his own, and Bruce was quick to pick up on that, his eyes narrowing again as some of the anger from before came back. "You can keep the room for yourself and whatever cheap liquor I bought for tonight. You seem to need it more than me."

"Oh, ye cunt..." Bruce mumbled under his breath, looking like he was about to jump on Brandon again as Brandon quickly picked up his belongings, throwing a coat around himself when he saw the streets still covered with ice and snow outside. 

"Happy New Year. It was a pleasure meeting you," Brandon said, walking towards the door in long strides and opening it unceremoniously before he stopped himself, turning around to stand in front of the Scotsman. He looked like he could rip Brandon's face off at any second - again reminding Brandon of the opossums he'd seen - but invading his personal space anyway. 

On a whim, Brandon added, "And it was even more of a pleasure to get my come all over your chest."

He knew he should've just left, but he simply couldn't help himself. Bruce looked taken aback by his last words, off balance at last, and then Brandon was leaning down and claiming Bruce's lips in a kiss. They still felt dry, but incredibly soft, his beard tickling Brandon's shaved skin and stinking of alcohol like his breath did.

Brandon pulled back quickly, not wanting to test his luck too much, but realized his mistake when he felt himself growing harder in his pants. He licked his lips, taking a step into the hallway as he told himself that trying to get Bruce to go further than a kiss wouldn’t be worth it - he had been beaten up before for not controlling himself, and he could do without another one of those. Bruce, in return, seemed both surprised and incredibly angry, and Brandon felt a chill crawl up his spine when he noticed how the Scotsman’s pupils seemed to be slowly eating the blue of his irises. 

Before Bruce could say or do anything, Brandon had turned around and was out the door and on the hallway, closing the door behind himself to keep Bruce from following him. 

Three minutes later, he stepped out of the hotel onto the freezing streets of New York. He hugged his coat closer to his body, feeling the familiar thrum of arousal under his skin starting to bother him, making him want to get up to the room again and to Bruce - who had called him a slur and yet had seemed to enjoy Brandon's touches just then. Strange man, but Brandon couldn't say much considering he was the one attracted to the guy.

He took the phone out of his pocket to look at the time. 1:21 AM. Still time to rustle up some company before he went home. 

Shrugging on his coat, Brandon took off for the red-light district. 

By the time Brandon had the misfortune of running into his strange New Years acquaintance again, he had almost forgotten all about him - with an emphasis on _almost_ , of course. 

Granted, Bruce hadn’t been the most enjoyable company for the few days they had shared a ratty hotel room, but he had left what you could call an impression. His sorry unwashed and unshaven state had left an impression, and his eyes, icy blue and burning with cold anger, had left an impression. 

His dry, chapped, warm lips on Brandon’s had left an impression, too, even though it had been two weeks already - an impression in his dreams and on the back of his retina, one that haunted him when he was sleeping, working, jerking off to lukewarm soft porn, even one and a half weeks after the incident. Or when he was going for a jog with his earbuds in, like right now. 

Scowling, Brandon dialled up the volume of Strauss. There was no way he was going to run through half of New York with a raging boner just because he couldn’t get his damn thoughts off a man he would most likely never see again. 

And yet - a red traffic light - time to slow down and jog on the spot, ignoring the dirty looks that old lady with the croco leather handbag was shooting him - and yet, there was something. Something about the ease with which Bruce had pulled Brandon up by his coat that one time he had slipped on the iced-over sidewalk, or the sheer brutal strength behind his movements when he had grabbed Brandon by the collar and pinned him up against the door and breathed his boozy stink into his face. 

The traffic light blinked from red to green, and with a shiver, Brandon dashed off to leave the old lady far behind. He had gotten caught in a cool winter shower just when he had left the safety of his apartment, and now, his sweatpants were sticking to his legs and behind, attracting lewd stares here and there as he passed by women and men. Every single one of them, he could have, could drag into his bed and ravish like there was no tomorrow, he knew this for certain. 

Only - for what was probably the first time in years - he didn’t feel like it. _They_ were not who he wanted. Who he wanted was now and forever utterly out of his reach. 

Oh, screw it. Breathe, in, out, in, out. Feel the pavement coming up to meet the soles of your running shoes, your regular, rhythmical steps. Don’t. Think. Don’t think about sex, and don’t think about blue eyes, and godfuckingdamnit most certainly _don’t think_ about those short, sturdy hands on your body, ripping off your clothes and pressing you into the mattress and leaving bruises, welts- 

Wait. 

That hobo smoking at the street corner looked familiar. 

His breath coming in short, hard bursts which congealed in the January chill, Brandon slowed from his harried sprint down to a leisurely jog, drawing steadily nearer. That black coat. He knew that coat, and that white-and-red scarf wound tightly around cheeks and a nose tipped with red. Or had the scarf been yellow and red-? 

Before Brandon could go perusing his memory, the man - half standing, half squatting against the sandstone facade of the building at his back - looked up at him and grinned. Then, without much ado, he thrust out a foot just as Brandon was about to pass him by. 

Ankle collided with ankle, shoe sole scraped over cement, and Brandon yelped as his balance left him and he was propelled forwards by his own momentum, his feet perilously behind his body. Time slowed down. Bracing for impact as the grey of the sidewalk loomed up to meet him, Brandon cursed himself internally for not having anticipated this. 

Fuck jogging. Fuck Bruce Robertson. And most of all - fuck his own horny, sex-obsessed brain. 

Then, there was a tug at the collar of his vest, a strain as someone gripped it, and Brandon spluttered and choked as the top of the zipper slammed into his Adam’s apple and he didn’t keel over. Instead, a warm, strong hand came to wrap around his waist, then one around his shoulder, and together, they placed him back on his feet. Still reeling from almost bashing his head in on the sidewalk, Brandon clutched at the nearest upper arm he could grasp while fishing for his earbuds which were now dangling loosely around his neck. 

“Why, will ye look at ‘at. Mah old roommate.” Sneering up at him was Bruce Robertson, in all his grubby, alcohol-doused glory, a half-smoked cigarette wedged between his red lips. Damn the man’s unnaturally fast reflexes. 

Brandon blurted out the first thing that came to his mind. “You again.” 

“Aye, world’s a village after aw.” Frowning down at Brandon’s grip on his forearm, Bruce reached up and pinched the cigarette between his fingers. “Coold’ve told me ‘at ye cunts dinnae allow smokin’ inside pubs.” 

Inconspicuously, Brandon loosened his hold and slipped his hand into his vest pocket instead. “You got kicked out of-” He turned his head to study the name sign of the bar across the street- “the _Grapevine_?” 

“Aye. What else does it look like?” 

“There’s a big ‘No smoking’ sign right on the door.” 

Bruce’s eyebrows crawled together into a frown like two fat, angry caterpillars. “Ah don’t need ye tae tell me ‘at,” he hissed, blazing blue eyes boring into Brandon’s as he straightened up to his full height - which, admittedly, wasn’t all that much. The collar of his coat brushed up against Brandon’s chest, long past invading his private space. 

_You look like an opossum_ , Brandon wanted to say, even though he himself didn’t look much better in his baggy sweatpants and ratty bottle-green down vest, _one that just crawled out of the trash can behind my apartment block and probably has syphilis_. 

Instead, he clamped down on his need to fight back - just shrugged and reached up to push his earbuds back in. And it worked. 

“Hey hey, nae so fast now, laddie.” Bruce, a small, angry lump of greasy hair and ginger stubble, stepped into his path when he tried to turn away, produced a half-crumpled cigarette package from his coat pocket and waved it in front of Brandon’s face. “Want a reek?” 

“Thank you, but I don’t smoke.” Brandon smiled down at him. Then, he added, “People who smoke disgust me.” 

Visibly resisting the urge to get his hands around Brandon’s neck and squeeze down, Bruce slipped the package back into his coat pocket and took a deep drag of his cigarette, before he tilted his chin up and breathed out. The bitter smoke billowed right into Brandon’s face. 

Scrunching up his nose, Brandon muttered, so low it was almost drowned out in the chatter of the passersby and honking of cars, “Your hair needs a wash.” 

“An’ ye’re an arsehole,” growled Bruce, flicking the burned-out cigarette stump onto the sidewalk without a second glance. 

Brandon cocked an eyebrow. “Right back at you.” 

And oh, if looks could kill. The blue of his irises almost swallowed up by the dark of his pupils, Bruce glared up at him. But instead of the expected kick in the shins or the fist connecting with his face, Brandon got to watch a manic grin spread on the Scotsman’s face. 

“Aye, checkmate.” Chuckling now, Bruce patted Brandon on the shoulder, before he looped a heavy arm around his waist and started dragging him into the direction he had come from. “Walk a wee wi’ me, will ye?” 

“But I was jogging-” 

“Look, sweetheart,” Bruce sighed, shooting a passing lady a dirty glare when she eyed his arm around Brandon’s waist in suspicion, “Ah cood do wi’ somethin’ tae bite, an’ ye look like a lovely lad wi’ some loose change in yer pockets, aye?” Then, he looked up to flash Brandon what was probably supposed to be a charming grin, but turned out more like a wolfish sneer. 

Still, by the time Brandon’s brain had progressed past that second word - _sweetheart_ , what the hell was the man on, and what business had Brandon’s knees going all soft and shaky at the frankly inappropriate endearment - Bruce was already dragging him along down the sidewalk, and Brandon could do nothing but stumble and fall into step beside him. 

They ended up standing at the high, sticky table of a seedy snack stall down by the waterfront, each of them with a steaming cup of thin coffee and a currywurst in front of them. Brandon watched with growing bemusement as Bruce - paper napkins under his elbows so his greasy coat wouldn’t get even dirtier as he propped himself up on the table - dug into his spicy food like there was no tomorrow. He himself didn’t quite get the appeal of what looked and tasted like brown pieces of carton swimming in a slimy sauce that was a poisonous shade of orange. 

“Aye, Ah ken,” Bruce said when he caught him poking half-heartedly at the currywurst, “they make ‘em better over in Hamburg, believe me.” 

Brandon cocked his eyebrow at that. “Hamburg? I thought you were from Scotland.” 

“Sure am, laddie, born an’ bred, born an’ bred. An’ a nice place tae be born it is, I kid you not…” Bruce trailed off, a slightly forlorn look seeping into his eyes. Now it was him who was poking disinterestedly at the greasy fast food. “Cannae say Ah miss it much, tae be honest, and th’ boss said there were possibilities here for someone as ambitious as maeself. But New York jist straight up stinks.” 

Brandon grinned without real malice. “Heh. I’m impressed you can smell that over your own body odour.” 

Bruce’s hand shot up and pinched his side before he could react. A satisfied smirk spread on his lips as he watched Brandon yelp and stumble a few steps back. “Like ye dinnae look like a drowned cat yerself,” he grumbled, before he took a big swig of his coffee as though its scalding temperature didn’t bother him. 

“Hey, I just got out and it immediately started raining,” Brandon groused, desperately grasping at straws to defend himself. “But it was only a light shower. You should’ve seen me a few weeks back when my- back when.” 

“Back when yer what?” Three pieces of currywurst half-way to his mouth, Bruce paused to cock an eyebrow at him. 

Despite himself, Brandon winced. He didn’t want to talk about it. Hell, he didn’t even want to think about it - the blood stark red on his white bathroom tiles, the searing tears, the terrible, terrible numbness in his chest when the paramedics had carried his sister off in a stretcher… 

“Nothing.” With fingers that just shook a little bit, he reached for his cup of coffee, took a sip- and promptly burned his tongue. _Ow, godfuckingdamnit._ How the fuck had Bruce done that just a few moments ago without wincing? 

“Ah see.” Bruce nodded, and Brandon wanted to spit at him that no, he didn’t see, that he was a fucking moron and a jerk and knew absolutely nothing, but he didn’t. Instead, he took the lid of his cup of coffee to blow on it and listened as Bruce continued, oblivious to Brandon’s minor outburst of emotions. 

“So, Ah’m takin’ what ye could call a vacation.” Finishing up his curry sausage, Bruce polished the paper container it came in clean like he hadn’t eaten in days. “Th’ cunts at headquarters felt I’d gotten a bit too close tae a case, told me tae go ‘reorient’ meself. So, Ah did. Nae like mah folks would mind much.” 

Gingerly, Brandon propped his elbow up on a clean spot. “Folks? You got a wife, kids?” 

“Aye, one daughter, Stacey. Lovely lass.” Bruce almost glowed with pride as he straightened up taller, now in a better mood. Seemed the food had done wonders. “Ye should see ‘er - almost as bright as ‘er father already, an’ as bonnie as ‘er ma. You eatin’ ‘at?” With his left hand, he pointed to Brandon’s nearly untouched currywurst. 

“Help yourself,” Brandon muttered, transfixed by the golden glint of a wedding band on Bruce’s left ring finger. 

Great. The first man he came across who he felt he would be willing to fuck more than once, and he turned out to be married. Had he even helped the fucker cheat on his wife? 

Only one way to find out. 

“And Stacey’s mother? Doesn’t she mind letting you run around NYC all on your own?” Brandon asked, leaving the _Doesn’t she mind you telling strange men to jerk off on your chest in seedy motel rooms?_ unspoken. 

And Bruce still seemed to hear it. Looking up from his second portion of trashy currywurst, he shot Brandon a look that would have been scary had it not been for the smudge of bright orange sauce on his lower lip (a smudge Brandon totally didn’t want to wipe away with the pad of his thumb, oh no). “Better keep yer beak out of other people’s business, laddie,” he hissed, bristling with that strange kind of anger again. 

God, Brandon was tired. Too tired to deal with cheating husbands, and certainly too tired to catch one’s fist. 

“Look, do what you want,” he said, raising his hands in defeat. “I have to get back to my apartment anyway. You finished?” 

Bruce’s finger shot up, as if to say _One moment_ , and Brandon watched in grossed out fascination as the Scotsman hoovered the rest of the currywurst down in ten seconds. Then, blinking up at Brandon as though nothing had happened, he wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand, grabbed his cup of watery coffee and started down the sidewalk without bothering to chuck their trash into the nearby bin. 

Sighing, Brandon did it for him instead, before he sprinted after the man, poked his shoulder and said, “Wrong direction. My apartment’s the other way.” 

The surprise in Bruce’s glacier eyes as he stopped in his tracks was almost palpable, and Brandon wasn’t all that sure if that really was annoyance shining in them or just very well-hidden appreciation when he growled, “What, dae ye want me tae accompany ye?” 

“You got anywhere to be? Anything better to do?” 

“Nae per se, no,” murmured Bruce, levelling a curious look at Brandon. Like he couldn’t quite believe that _anyone_ would ask him to walk them back to theirs. 

“Then let’s go.” Burying his hands in his vest pockets against the biting January cold, Brandon turned on his heels and started down the sidewalk. After a few steps, he glanced over his shoulder to see and check if Bruce was really following him. 

The street behind him was deserted. He frowned. 

“Over here, sunshine,” came Bruce’s voice by his side, and Brandon almost jumped into the path of an oncoming car. Bruce grinned. “Aye, ye’re nae getting rid of me ‘at fast.” 

Brandon smiled before he could catch himself. After all, it wasn’t like he was trying. 

Quite the opposite in fact. 

Brandon only realised his mistake when they came up to his apartment and ended up shuffling feet awkwardly in front of the entrance hall. The lights were going on behind windows and over restaurant signs, what with the sun slowly setting behind the city skyline, and the crowds on the streets were thinning out. 

“So,” Brandon said, shooting a sideways glance at the invitingly lit door to the stairwell at the end of which, he knew, lay his apartment. His nice little apartment, currently uninhabited by unnerving sisters and with an apt stock of lube in the bedside drawer. 

Gosh, he needed a wank so badly. 

“So,” echoed Bruce. His white-and-red shawl was wrapped tightly around his neck and chin, shielding him from the biting winter cold. "What floor's yer apartment?"

Brandon didn't skip a beat before answering, "6th floor."

"Alright."

He frowned, watching the Scotsman walk towards the building's front doors and get in, not looking back at Brandon once as he did so. It took a few seconds for him to realize that Bruce was on his way to his apartment, widening his eyes as he finally moved to catch up with the other man. 

"I have work to do," Brandon lied, the _You can't come in_ implicit in his words.

"Good for ye." Despite Brandon's clear rejection, Bruce kept going, climbing up the stairs in quick steps as Brandon tried to keep up with him. "Ah don't, an' Ah could do wi’ a drink. Do ye have any good booze?"

"Yes, but-"

"Then Ah dinnae see th’ problem, doll."

Brandon stopped dead in his tracks at the endearment, watching as Bruce climbed a few more steps before he came to a halt and looked down at Brandon, his eyebrows raised. The knowing glance he shot him made Brandon shiver - damned be his horny brain.

"Are ye comin' or will Ah have to pick yer lock?" 

Brandon moved immediately after those words, something telling him that Bruce was only half joking.

They got to the 6th floor, Bruce now walking behind Brandon with his hands thrust into the pockets of his black coat. He watched with a mildly interested gaze as Brandon unlocked the door and hesitantly gestured for Bruce to walk in. 

The Scotsman didn't share that hesitation at all as he entered the apartment, eyes roaming over everything while Brandon closed the door again and swallowed thickly.

Bruce was in his apartment. Bruce had a wife and kid. But Bruce also had allowed Brandon to jerk off on his chest and essentially put on a show for him, and Brandon would be lying if he said he wouldn't like a second go at it. He couldn't help but think again about the stock of lube in his bedside drawer as his eyes flickered up and down Bruce's body, which was annoyingly hidden under the black coat and the scarf. 

Brandon almost pitied himself as he figured that the person in his mind that night when he would get a hand around himself and jerk off was to be this arsehole.

Without so much as a word, Bruce took off the scarf and the coat, throwing it carelessly over the armrest of the couch in the living room, before he strutted his way to the kitchen as though he was right at home. Brandon followed immediately, wondering - and fearing - what the man would do, and held back a sigh when he saw that the Scotsman was taking a bottle of wine out of the fridge to look at the label. So he had been serious about the drinking.

"Nice place ye have here, doll," Bruce muttered without even looking at Brandon.

There it was again, the pet name, making Brandon shiver for a second time - _since when were pet names getting him all hot and bothered?_ Suddenly, he was grateful that Bruce's eyes were on the alcohol. When Bruce grinned, Brandon wondered if he had noticed the shiver after all, but soon Bruce was putting the wine back and taking a bottle of beer out of the fridge with a victorious look, opening it unceremoniously and taking a chug. Brandon definitely didn't stare at the way his throat moved as he swallowed.

"Anyway, Ah won't keep ye from yer work, sunshine," the Scotsman said when he turned to Brandon again, a knowing glint in his blue eyes that made Brandon gulp. "It's probably _very important_ work."

Brandon didn't reply, pressing his lips into a thin line as Bruce saw through his lie. The Scotsman snorted in return, taking another gulp of beer before walking past Brandon and plopping himself onto the couch with a satisfied sound, half sitting, half laying on the springy cushions. Brandon's eyes roamed over Bruce's body again against his will, stopping on the man’s honestly impressive thighs for a moment. Brandon _definitely_ didn't think about feeling their pale flesh - Bruce was pale everywhere, so he imagined his thighs wouldn't be much different - under his hands, or about pressing his lips against them, or about sitting down on Bruce's lap at that exact moment.

Instead of thinking of those things, Brandon turned his back to the arsehole on his couch, went straight to his room and closed the door behind himself, his back pressed against the sturdy wood as he thought of what to do. He _could_ tell Bruce to leave, although there was no guarantee that he would even obey Brandon. 

Besides, Brandon wasn’t all that sure if he even _wanted_ Bruce to leave. 

Sissy invading his apartment was one thing. She was his sister, having her over meant he couldn't do what he wanted _when_ he wanted. Having Bruce there was different, though, considering what had happened in that seedy hotel room.

With a sigh, Brandon took clean shorts and a shirt from his chest of drawers and went to lock himself in the bathroom so he could have a shower before deciding what to do with Bruce. 

If he stroked himself off under the warm water with Bruce's face in mind, it was hardly his fault.

Brandon found himself to be skittish all night, wandering from the living room where he kept Bruce company to his bedroom more times than he could count, mostly so he could catch his breath in solitude. Every time he got up, he could feel Bruce's eyes following him, locking on his arse which he knew was covered only by the boxer shorts he wore to sleep. 

He wondered if Bruce would act at some point or just keep staring. For someone who had called Brandon a _buftie,_ his eyes were very interested in him.

In the end, Brandon hadn't gone through with pretending he had work to do, seeing Bruce judging him silently before he asked if he had any good movies to put on. They ended up watching _Becoming Jane_ , a ridiculous biography of Jane Austen with a frankly unnerving male lead - or at least Bruce was watching it, since Brandon wouldn't stay still - as Bruce went through a few bottles of beer and made himself increasingly at home on Brandon's couch.

Even if Brandon had stayed in the living room for the entire movie, he couldn't say he would have paid much attention to it given how much his mind went to what they _could_ be doing instead. Bruce sometimes rested his hands on his thighs, and Brandon imagined the feeling of those strong, stubby fingers on his skin, going up, and up, and up, until they reached the shorts that covered his crotch. Whenever Bruce took a sip of his beer, Brandon imagined the Scotsman's annoyingly pink lips wrapped around his cock instead of the bottle head. As Brandon fought with his overeager imagination, _not_ being skittish would’ve been just too much to ask of him.

Late at night, when the movie was over and Bruce was already looser from the alcohol, Brandon thought he would finally have peace. Bruce would leave his apartment and go back to the shitty hotel and Brandon would have a marvellous wanking session on his bed before drifting off to sleep. When Bruce started making himself comfortable on Brandon's couch to sleep, Brandon almost screamed.

"It's kinda late," Brandon said, leaning against the backrest, his fists clenching and unclenching by his sides as Bruce opened his eyes to stare up at him. He looked like he was already annoyed at Brandon's words before they left his mouth. "You should be going back to the hotel."

"Surely ye dinnae mind me staying th' night, aye, doll?" Bruce's voice was low as he purred at Brandon with a grin on his lips. 

"That's very bold of you, to invite yourself over."

"If ye didn't want me over ye would've thrown me out earlier," Bruce argued, sitting up on the couch with a grunt before getting to his feet. 

Brandon already thought that maybe he had convinced Bruce after all - of course, he was wrong. 

"Are ye really lettin' a drunk tourist wander around New York on his own?"

"You're hardly drunk."

"Ah had a few beers."

"You're Scottish."

"Oy, doll, that's a stereotype - dinnae be an arsehole." 

Brandon gave Bruce a deadpan expression, which seemed to do nothing for the Scotsman. 

"It's jist one night, aye, doll?" 

"I don't know, I have work in the mor-" But Brandon wasn't able to finish his thoughts.

The moment he had opened his mouth to talk, Bruce had given him a preying look, something crossing the blue of his eyes before he closed the space between them and pulled Brandon's face down for a kiss. Brandon’s eyes widened at the feeling of Bruce's lips against his own, feeling heat spread through his whole body with the sheer force behind it, and, with a shameful whine, he kissed back. 

Different from the two kisses they had shared before, which had been just a press of lips on lips, this one escalated quickly. Bruce coaxed Brandon's mouth open with his tongue, a quiet, almost pleased sigh leaving his nose as he assaulted Brandon's mouth, and all Brandon could do was kiss back and pull Bruce closer by the collar of his shirt, desperate for the touch of their bodies.

He felt himself being walked backwards, only slowly realizing that Bruce was guiding them to the bedroom, one of his hands on the scruff of Brandon's neck while the other rested on Brandon's hips, their mouths not leaving each other the whole way. He felt giddy at the thought that they were going to the bed, wondering what would happen next - who would be on top? Would Brandon get to see Bruce's lips around him and sucking him off? Would Bruce be as energetic as he was now while they were fucking? All he was sure of at that moment was that he was already hardening in his shorts, every new idea that crossed his mind firing up the pit of arousal pooling in his belly.

He left out a small undignified huff when his body was pushed onto the bed roughly - and _finally_ Bruce's strength was being used on him like that - shuddering as he saw the way Bruce was looking down at him. He was already tenting his pants as well, and Brandon thought about sitting up and sucking him into full hardness, finally getting to see Bruce's cock and know its taste and weight on his tongue; he was sure he had never wanted to suck someone off so badly in his whole life.

Just as he was about to get up and zip Bruce's pants open, he saw the Scotsman leaning down on the bed. For a moment, Brandon thought he was leaning down to reach for _him_ , to grab his ankle and pull him close and have his way with Brandon’s body - only to get thoroughly confused when he saw Bruce pick up the crumpled blanket at the end of the bed instead and shoot him a grin as he straightened back up.

"Goodnight, doll." 

Bruce left the room without another word or a look back, taking Brandon's bed covers with him and closing the door behind himself after he had walked out. Brandon lay there, looking at the now closed door with his chest still heaving, and tried to understand what had just happened.

Bruce had kissed him - and _what a fucking kiss_ \- had thrown him onto his bed and then stolen Brandon's blanket and left him there with a hard-on. Right now, he was probably making himself comfortable on Brandon's couch again. 

Brandon threw his head back against the mattress and closed his eyes, grunting in frustration and annoyance, wanting to burst into the living room and scream at the Scotsman. Unfortunately, when he closed his eyes, all Brandon could think about was that damned kiss and how heated it had felt.

Resigned to his fate, Brandon moved up on the bed to lean against the headrest and pulled his shorts down, complaining to himself as he leaned over to the bedside drawer to grab the lube before he started to take care of his little problem. It was quick and fast and not at all satisfying, but at least it got the job done for now and he'd be able to sleep. Before he could lay back and close his eyes, however, Brandon noticed how dry his mouth was. 

He was in dire need of a glass of water. Sighing to himself, he got up from the bed to go to the kitchen, hoping that Bruce would already be asleep when he would pass through the living room.

His eyes moved to the couch on his way to the kitchen, stopping for a moment as he watched Bruce's sleeping form. He was curled up on the narrow cushions, body completely covered by the blanket that had once been on Brandon's bed, and his face looked… _calm._ He seemed vulnerable there in his sleep, lips forming a pout that Brandon refused to acknowledge as adorable - nothing about Bruce Robertson was supposed to be adorable, he reminded himself - and his expression light and lacking the douche-y air he always adopted. There, snuggling with Brandon's covers, Bruce looked like someone Brandon could get used to seeing more often. 

Guilt eating away at his heart when he remembered the wedding ring, he pushed the thought away immediately.

He sighed to himself, turned his eyes away from the sleeping man and chucked down the rest of his water before sprinting back to his room and getting a new blanket for himself. 

As he lay in bed, preparing for a night of uneasy sleep, he tried not to think of what morning would bring. 


	2. Tango and More

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone once said that tango is like sex, but with clothes on. Well, Brandon is getting plenty of that - and more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so - about this being only a two-chapter-piece. We lied. Also, I (Steph) can be blamed for the tango scene :3 The 'rona has put me on withdrawal so I'm living my dream through writing.  
> You can blame me (Syd) for the other half of the horny. I have nothing to justify it other than horny brain goes brrrrrr

Brandon woke up with the sun hitting his face right and square, his brow furrowing at the annoying glare against his eyelids as his mind slowly shifted from his dreams to reality. He turned on the bed, escaping the morning light as best he could, and opened his eyes, blinking a few times as he felt them burning slightly. His gaze fell over the small radio clock on his bedside table. 

He groaned when he realized he had beaten his alarm by ten minutes, grieving those five extra minutes of sleep before he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress.

Again he cursed at the sun outside as it filtered brightly through his blinds and poured over his face, then tried to plan out his morning before he even left his room. He needed breakfast - his stomach was begging for food now that he was awake - and a good shower as well before leaving for work. There was also trash he needed to take out, and he hoped the opossums living in the dumpsters behind his apartment block wouldn't try to attack him for getting too close to their home. His mind came to a quick halt at that, suddenly remembering the night prior to that morning - and remembering Bruce.

Bruce, who had kissed him senseless only to steal his blanket. Bruce, who was sleeping on his couch at that very moment. 

Brandon was torn between tip-toeing into his living room and taking a look at the other man or just staying in his bedroom for as long as he could to try and ignore his houseguest. He felt ridiculous for even thinking about the second option only a few seconds later.

 _This is my home,_ Brandon told himself. _He's the one who should feel awkward about being here._

With a deep breath, Brandon finally got up from his bed. While he stretched and yawned, he wondered if he should change his clothes or not, considering how much Bruce had been eyeing him the evening before when had walked around only in his boxer shorts. He almost felt ashamed as he realised that he wished to see that again. 

Still, he kept his sleeping clothes on as he left the room. Being objectified just a little couldn’t possibly hurt. 

His gaze went straight to the couch when he stepped into the living room, frowning as he saw it empty. The blanket Bruce had stolen from his bed last night was a lump on one of the armrests, and the cushions looked generally dishevelled. Brandon looked around, walking into the kitchen only to find it empty, and the bathroom was just the same when he checked there for Bruce. 

Save for the rumpled blanket and the empty beer bottles on the coffee table, it looked as though Bruce had never been there. Brandon couldn’t even tell how long it had been since Bruce had left.

Brandon sighed, running his hand over his face as he wondered what his life had come to ever since that fateful New Years Eve spent in a shitty motel. Part of him felt grateful that Bruce had left before he could have seen him in the morning, while part of him was… disappointed. 

He knew he shouldn't be, he really shouldn't - and yet he wished Bruce had stayed. The apartment felt empty.

Just to be sure, Brandon looked through the place again to make absolutely certain that Bruce wasn't simply hiding - Brandon wouldn't put it past him to pull a stunt like that. However, he only succeeded in confirming that he was, in fact, very much alone again. 

In his room, the alarm rang loudly, telling him it was time for him to wake up and get ready for work, his extra ten minutes now gone.

Pushing down that damned disappointment, Brandon got ready for the day.

Said day turned out to be rather unsatisfying - just like the three even more abysmal wanks Brandon managed to grab in the office toilet. Work was bleak, lunch was bland, and boredom ever-present. 

Then, something extraordinary happened. And it did when Brandon came home from work. 

Transferring his purchase of three giant boxes of Thai take-out from his right to his left hand, Brandon frowned at his apartment door. 

Had he forgotten to lock it in the morning? 

Well, the lock was certainly undone, and the door itself slightly ajar. Behind it, in the half-gloom of the apartment, all was silent. All the lights were out, and when Brandon entered, careful not to make a sound, nothing looked ransacked to him. The shelves, the drawers, everything was in place. 

He breathed out shakily, made for the kitchen to set down his load on the counter- and stopped dead in his tracks. 

No. No wait. 

The shower was running. 

Why was the shower running? It couldn’t be Sissy - one, she always put on music when she decided to invade Brandon’s flat to have a shower, and two, she had spammed him with images from her ex-ex’s cottage in the countryside only one hour ago. There was no way she could make it back to New York this fast. 

What kind of burglar had decided not to rob an apartment and was taking a shower instead? With an increasingly annoyed frown, Brandon put down the take-out on the kitchen counter and made his way through the living room to his walk-in closet, shrugging off his coat and throwing it over the back of the couch as he went. 

The baseball bat was still in its usual place. Brandon wiped his sweaty palms on his slacks before he gripped its handle with both hands, the weight of the wood reassuring him as he crept towards the bathroom. 

Whoever had decided to invade his personal space was not going to answer to the cops, but to him directly. 

At least the bathroom door was closed. Not locked, as Brandon soon found out when he leaned down and peered at the thin slip of light falling through its crack. 

Alright then. He got this. And even if he didn’t, it mattered little. Sissy would be better off without her distant, sex-crazed brother, anyway. 

Brandon kicked the bathroom door open and braced himself for impact, swinging the bat in a wide arc at the silhouette behind the shower curtain. He pretended he didn’t hear his voice break when he screamed, “I’ll kill you, you fucking pig!” 

He didn’t even get one hit in before the intruder was on him in a flash of naked skin and dripping hair. There were hands on his shoulders, spinning him around and pinning him up against the tiled wall across from the mirror, and his head was slammed painfully against the cool surface. It all happened so fast he didn’t even get a good look at the man’s face - because it _was_ a man, it had to be - which was a mere blur in the corner of his vision. 

The baseball bat slid from his grip and clattered to the floor. 

“Ah, no-” Panting, Brandon struggled against the grip the man had on his waist and wrists. There was a wet, hot body pressing up against his backside, closer and closer and crushing his chest against the wall, his hips, his cheek, and now his arm was being twisted painfully behind his back and Brandon cried out in panic before he could stop himself- 

“Who ye callin’ a feckin’ pig, ye pansy, ey?” a very familiar voice whispered hotly into his ear. “An’ tone it down a wee bit, will ye?” 

Brandon toned it down. All sound was suddenly lost to him. He could have sobbed in relief - he wouldn’t die here tonight. Probably. 

“Bruce?” he gasped, feeling some of the tension leave his body against his own will. Bruce still had his wrists deadlocked in a too-tight grip, sure to leave bruises, but Brandon’s arm wasn’t being twisted as viciously anymore. He sucked in a stuttering breath, before he asked, “Bruce, could you let me go now?” 

Bruce said nothing. He just kept breathing wetly into Brandon’s ear. 

Brandon frowned in dismay. This was getting uncomfortable. 

“Bruce,” he reiterated, grinding his teeth, “ _let me go_.” 

The iron grip around his wrists tightened again, and Bruce’s hum reverberated through Brandon’s ribcage as he asked, “An’ why should Ah, doll? Ye just walked in on me, completely naked an’ just havin’ a shower, an’ now ye ask me nae to defend meself? Look, we don’ even have a safeword, sweetheart.” 

Despite himself, Brandon felt himself grow hard in the tight confines of his pants, trying and failing to not melt into Bruce’s grasp. Here he was, with his cheek and chest crushed up against the cool tiles of his bathroom and a very wet, very mad, _very naked_ Bruce pressed to his back and making his dress shirt stick to his skin - and he was popping a boner. 

It was almost pathetic. 

To his shame, he almost whimpered when he hissed back, “Why are you showering in _my_ apartment, anyway?” 

“Hey, jist yesterday, _you_ told me mah hair needed a wash,” Bruce answered like that was the most logical explanation in the world. “An’ jist by the way, I’ve given up mah hotel room an’ packed mah bags, so Ah’ll be stayin’ at yours for a wee while.” 

Brandon gaped, speechless. Did every Scotsman come with such inborn gall and entitlement? 

He let the silence between them stretch on, desperately praying for Bruce to take the hint and release him so they could have this conversation eye to eye (and totally not so he would finally find out what Bruce looked like naked). 

It didn’t work. Not exactly. Instead, Brandon felt Bruce take a deep breath and press even closer against him, if that was even physically possible. He ached to turn his head around just a fraction more, to catch a glimpse of Bruce’s bared skin in the mirror, but the wall and the awkward angle at which Bruce had caught him restrained him. All he could do was breathe raggedly against the bathroom tiles as Bruce’s weight on his back, his crotch pressing against Brandon’s arse, the sheer _heat_ of his body almost overwhelmed him, paired with the knowledge that only the thin fabric of his dress shirt was keeping their skin from touching and sticking together. 

All his blood seemed to rush south. His head was starting to spin, his knees beginning to liquify. The only thing keeping him upright were Bruce’s hands on his wrist. 

“Aye, you like ‘at, don’t you, you wee, sick pansy?” Bruce murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Brandon’s ear and sending sparks down his spine. “Turns ye on, doesn't it?” 

A choked-off sound, something between a moan and a sob, escaped Brandon’s mouth before he could smother it. Behind him, Bruce chuckled, and not in a friendly way. His breath ghosted over Brandon’s face, and suddenly he was leaning forward to nose at Brandon’s cheekbones, his neck, the jut of his jaw, like he wanted to scent him. His lips dragged over Brandon’s skin, dry, searing - electric. 

Brandon spasmed in his grip, not giving a damn anymore about swallowing the small, desperate noises escaping him. “Ungh, please-” 

He was fully hard now, _desperately_ hard, and leaking precome on top. He would let Bruce drag him to the bedroom, or bend him over the sink or fuck him up against the wall if that was what it took. He would let him do _anything_ \- 

Bruce’s grip disappeared abruptly, and Brandon found himself being pushed over to the door and out into the corridor. 

“What-?” He spun around, intent on finally catching a glimpse of Bruce’s naked form- and jerked back as the bathroom door was slammed shut into his face. 

Bruce’s voice sounded unfairly composed as he shouted from behind the solid wood, “Oh, an’ jist by th’ way, yer shampoo is shite!” 

Then, the shower curtain rustled and the water took up running again. 

Brandon’s hand shook as he carded his fingers through his hair. So close. So _goddamned close_ , and then it all had to blow up into his face. Naturally. 

Wetting his lips, Brandon returned to the kitchen to put the take-out away and pour himself a glass of water. His mouth felt dry and hot, like sandpaper, and when he met eyes with his reflection in the windowpane, he glared. Blotches of dark had bloomed on his cheeks, his hair was ruffled and his dress shirt mussed up beyond recognition. 

He looked utterly ravished. 

There was an irrational feeling of giddiness building in his chest, flapping its wings like a little trapped bird, and suddenly, the overwhelming urge to tidy up washed over him. Tidy his apartment up, even though Sissy always made fun of him for not allowing even a smidge of dust to gather on the shelves and counter. Tidy himself up, just so maybe Bruce would finally take what Brandon wanted him to. 

Instead, Brandon gave in to another need - a much more pressing one. 

His hand was down the front of his pants before he had finished turning the key in the lock of his bedroom door, and by the the time the water in the shower stopped running, he was sitting with his back against the wall, his palm come-streaked and his knees shaking as he desperately asked himself what the everloving fuck he was getting himself into.

Brandon grunted for the millionth time that morning as the photocopier decided to get stuck. 

Like his morning wasn't already stressful enough. But after getting in a few good hits with the flat of his palm, he simply pinched the bridge of his nose with more force than he probably should, trying to calm himself down. He felt like he was on the edge of snapping at any second now, like he could scream at virtually anyone who even so much as breathed in his direction (and maybe he _had_ scared that new intern earlier today - but hey, the guy deserved it).

"Well, _someone_ got out of bed on the wrong side this morning. And for a few days in a row now, from what I’ve noticed."

Brandon opened his eyes and turned around, seeing Marianne there with her gaze locked on him and her eyebrows raised in curiosity - and worry, if he wasn’t completely mistaken. He controlled himself then, telling himself that the last thing he wanted to do was snap at his co-worker when she didn't deserve to be the victim of his frustration. Instead, he sighed tiredly, turned back around and tried once again to get the photocopier to work.

"I'm alright. This… _thing_ just keeps getting jammed."

"Brandon, you look like you're ready to punch someone any moment now." She stepped back into his line of sight as she leaned against the doorjamb next to the photocopier, her arms crossed over her chest and her eyes still watching him kindly. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

Brandon snorted despite himself - the question sounded incredibly funny to him considering the nature of his problem. No, he didn't think there was something Marianne could do when the reason he was so exhausted was the Scotsman who had taken to living in his apartment and driving him insane for the whole past week by making him live in constant sexual frustration.

Somehow, Bruce's company in the apartment wasn't all that bad. Yes, he could be loud at times, and he was prone to making messes in the living room or on the kitchen counter, but usually one shouted insult from Brandon would make him stop. Admittedly, Brandon was beginning to suspect him of ill-behaving just to get on his nerves - but he wasn't as much of a nuisance as Brandon had first thought he would be when he had realised that Bruce was serious about staying at his flat. 

At least, of course, until Bruce had started what now felt like a game to get Brandon to cry out in frustration. 

The first time it had happened - and Brandon remembered it _very well -_ had been on the very first night Bruce had decided to stay, when Brandon had found him showering in his apartment. Bruce, it turned out, had been the one to pick his lock, and then he had proceeded to push Brandon up against a wall and tease him only to shove him out of the bathroom with a hard-on. 

Brandon only wished it had stopped there (or, well, that it had _escalated_ in a good way from there). But then had come morning, and Bruce had asked for a cup of coffee, which Brandon made him only because he was going to get one for himself, anyway. 

As the coffee machine was droning away busily, filling a chipped mug with caffeinated goodness, Brandon felt a body press up against him from behind, making him gasp and shudder from head to toe. Then, suddenly, there were hands on his waist and lips on the back of his neck, and almost like in a dream, Brandon felt Bruce's grip guide his hips to sway against Bruce's crotch.

He really thought that that was the moment he’d been waiting for - he could feel Bruce hardening in his pants, the outline of his cock pressing distinctly against Brandon’s arse through the few layers of clothes keeping them apart. He was even more assured he'd get fucked in his kitchen at that very moment when Bruce pulled his head back so he could press a kiss directly onto his lips - it was filthy, and it made Brandon wonder what exactly that mouth could possibly do in other places. 

Unfortunately, Brandon should've learned by then that Bruce wasn't exactly predictable. 

So, instead of getting fucked right in front of his coffee maker, he soon found himself trembling, with his hands crushed flat on the kitchen counter as he tried to breathe properly again. His cock was hard and leaking already, and the mug with Bruce's coffee gone as the Scotsman made his way to the living room, like he wasn't desperately hard himself.

After that, it happened again _every single day,_ slowly escalating and getting more and more maddening for Brandon, driving him positively insane. His bottle of lube was getting empty faster than it should with how much he found himself with his hand inside his pants every day (and even inside himself some nights). A lube package’s life span in his household was shorter now than ever - if that was even possible.

However, what was maybe the worst day in Brandon's book ever since Bruce had invaded his apartment, was the night they danced.

They had been sitting on opposite ends of the couch, gorged on cheap Indian take-away from right down the street corner as they stared at their respective screens - Brandon at his laptop, and Bruce at his phone. There had been some sort of kids’ cartoon running on the TV, the volume turned down to almost zero, and Brandon’s sock-clad feet had been nestled comfortably under his thighs. 

It was a quiet, perfectly normal evening, almost jarring in its domesticity. Brandon had been sated and content and wishing for nothing. 

Then, of course, Bruce had to get up and start rifling through Brandon’s vinyl collection. 

For a few minutes, Brandon sweated bullets while the covers of his precious records slapped against each other, handled by what he was certain were very greasy, very much unwashed fingers. Inconspicuously glancing up from his laptop, he saw his worst suspicions confirmed - Bruce was leaving through the vinyl discs with about as much care as a racoon ransacking a trash can. 

He was on the brink of getting up and distracting Bruce with something- anything- with the offer of a blowjob, if need be- when the Scotsman finally let out a noise of triumph and held up a Led Zeppelin record. 

“ _Houses of the Holy_! Not bad, my sweet, sweet friend.” 

Scowling, Brandon watched him slide the disc out of its casing and put it on the record player, but his unease soon melted away when he saw the care with which Bruce handled the vinyl. He closed his laptop and sat back, his eyes following Bruce as he made his way back to the couch while the first notes of _The Song Remains the Same_ began to play. 

The seconds trickled away, and then the minutes. Brandon lost himself in the guitar solos, the drums, Robert Plant’s plain yet hypnotic voice. Every now and then, he glanced to his right, only to see that Bruce seemed to have sunken into an equally solemn state of contemplation. 

The silent scraping of the needle on the record came so unexpected Brandon shook awake like from a nightmare. Bruce, however, remained frozen in his pose, his back hunched over and his elbows propped up on his knees. There was a far-away look in his glacier eyes, unperturbed even as Brandon got up, gently lifted the disc from the record player and put it back in its case. 

Sometimes, Brandon wondered what was going on behind Bruce’s icy-blue gaze. Sometimes, he thought he probably didn’t want to know. 

His wristwatch showed 9pm. Not quite time to go to bed yet, but also too late to start a movie or another album. 

Then, Brandon’s eyes fell on a tacky red cover at the very back of his row of records. He grinned. 

This would just do. 

He extracted the vinyl disc and gently lowered it onto the player, before he retreated to the couch to observe Bruce’s reaction. And not a second too early - the first notes of the tango had barely played when Bruce’s gaze snapped back to the here and now, flickering from the record player to Brandon and back. 

“Oh, you wee wanker,” he muttered at last, the look in his bright blue eyes sending a shiver down Brandon’s spine. “Ye fin’ this funny?” 

“Hey, it’s still my flat after all.” Hands up in mock-surrender, Brandon stared back. “I can play whatever I want.” 

“Aye. But ye still play th' games, an’ ye still have to adhere to th' rules.” 

Swallowing dryly, Brandon watched the Scotsman get up- and push back the coffee table between the sofa and the television, creating a free space around the couch. 

He frowned. “What are you-?” 

The words got stuck in his throat when Bruce stalked over to him and pulled him to his feet, immediately bringing their bodies up close and personal with a hand on Brandon’s waist. His left grabbed Brandon’s right and held it up in a dancer’s pose. 

“Ye wanted to dance, aye?” Bruce lodged his knee between Brandon’s, his hand dangerously low on Brandon’s back coaxing him to lean in. “Ah jist hope ye still remember yer lessons, sunshine, ‘cause we’re on th’ way to take this a notch higher.” 

Without waiting for an answer, he started into the Tango basic step, leading Brandon backwards with such force in his upper body that Brandon didn’t even have time to think about resisting. He just let Bruce handle him, overwhelmed by the heat of his scent so close and his thigh between Brandon’s and the almost effortless glide of their sock-clad feet over the smooth hardwood floor. 

Where in heaven and hell had Bruce learned to dance the tango, of all things? 

They had barely rounded the couch once when Bruce led them into a simple turn. Brandon staggered, his feet almost snatching on Bruce’s, but a warm, steady grip on his back kept him from falling. 

Bruce chuckled as they continued. “Ye normally lead, don’t ye?” 

Cursing the excited blotches of dark red already blooming on his cheeks, Brandon nodded. “I only took tango lessons once, with Sissy. She wanted to surprise her boyfriend during a romantic dinner, tell him she wanted them to get engaged... he didn’t even show up.” 

Huffing as he led them into a more complex figure, Bruce muttered, “What an arsehole. Ye really need to introduce me to yer sister one day, she sounds like a tidy wee bird.” 

“Not if you’re going to try and sleep with her,” Brandon grumbled absent-mindedly as he tried his best not to stumble over his own feet. 

“Jealous, aren’t we, eh, doll?” 

Bruce’s hand on Brandon’s back grew heavier, approaching their upper bodies until not even a sheet of paper could have slipped between them. Only a small part of Brandon’s mind registered that they had almost stopped moving - the rest was overwhelmed with the sheer flood of sensations, with Bruce’s body heat, Bruce’s breath on his collarbones, Bruce’s eyes locked with his. 

Almost gently, Bruce guided Brandon’s crotch to grind down on his thigh, his hand slipping lower and lower until it came to rest on the curve of Brandon’s ass. Brandon didn’t even try to smother his needy gasp. 

“Aye, _that’s_ how ye dance th’ tango,” Bruce breathed, walking them backwards at an agonisingly slow pace. 

Brandon felt his back being pressed against the window giving onto the street, before Bruce’s hands grabbed him by the waist and hoisted him up. He wasted no time, hooking his knees around Bruce’s hips and grinding their half-hard cocks together through the fabric of their jeans. Bruce panted as he pinned Brandon against the cool glass with a steely grip. 

“That was Carole’s favourite move, too,” he mused, and Brandon felt the cool metal of Bruce’s wedding ring cut into the flesh of his waist. 

He moaned. “But I’m not Carole.” Then, he leaned in and pulled Bruce into a bruising kiss. 

For a few seconds, Bruce reciprocated. For a few seconds, he kissed right back, caught Brandon’s lower lip between his teeth, ground their crotches together at such a feverish pace that Brandon almost feared he’d come in his pants. 

For a few seconds, everything was perfect. 

Then, Bruce pulled back, untangled their limbs, and Brandon could have cried out in frustration. 

“Ye wee slag,” Bruce spat into his face, his grip on Brandon’s waist hard and cutting all of a sudden, “you’d let me take ye up against th’ window for th’ whole world to see, wouldn’t ye?” 

Brandon flinched at the cold fire burning in his eyes. He’d already seen this look on someone else before. 

Not again. Not this time. It wouldn’t happen, _he_ wouldn’t let it happen. 

“Let me down,” he ground out, “ _now_.” 

And Bruce did. “Fuckin’ buftie,” he growled, plucking Brandon’s legs from his waist like they were something dirty before he turned and disappeared into the bathroom, slamming the door behind himself. 

Brandon’s knees were shaking. Slowly, he slid down the window, until he was sitting on the floor and could bury his face in his hands. 

"It's just some problems at home," Brandon offered after a while, his eyes flickering over to Marianne again and seeing her frown.

"I thought you lived alone."

"There's a… _friend_ over." He shrugged, averting his gaze. "He's being kind of a problem, but I can handle it." 

He couldn't - could not handle Bruce, not now, not ever - and he knew that very well.

"Alright," Marianne said, sounding extremely suspicious for a second. "But if you ever need anything, don't be shy to ask."

This evening, Brandon arrived home tired out of his mind. Work had become more and more stressful as the hours went on, and the day had ended with Brandon snapping at David of all people when he had asked when Sissy would be back in town.

Brandon had felt his blood boil in his veins at the question, the memory of his boss and his sister in his bed almost making him punch David square in the face. 

Instead, Brandon had screamed a good and loud _“Fuck off!”_ and left his office. During the subway ride home, he had seen a text from David asking if he was okay, and had ended up grimacing at the words which came right after what, with any other person, could have been seen as a worried, caring question.

_we should hang out again tomorrow, make the most of Saturday night. you'll be less pissed when you get your dick wet ;)_

Just because David was right about the fact that his stress was in some way related to sex didn't mean that Brandon would be less disgusted by the man. 

He tried to push aside the memory of the ring on Bruce’s left hand, the one he never took off and sometimes kissed like it was an acquired habit. Bruce wasn't David, although they were both almost in the same league, if Brandon stopped to think about it - which he absolutely didn't.

As he closed the apartment door behind himself, he heard the TV turned on to maximum volume in the living room. He tried to take a deep breath, knowing that the interaction with Bruce would probably go as smoothly as it always did - which was not at all.

All the anger and the built-up stress made something coil on the pit of his stomach, and he decided he'd have dinner quickly before going to bed and making sure to get that stress out of his system like he always did. All that was left to hope for was that Bruce wouldn't add to that kind of stress that day. 

Brandon had yet to stop hoping for hopeless things.

Judging by the mess in the kitchen sink and on the counter, Bruce had already had dinner. Brandon could feel the Scotsman's eyes following him as he moved in the kitchen, chucking empty packages in the bin and getting ingredients from the fridge, and didn't acknowledge him in any way. 

Brandon thought that maybe he should stop comparing Bruce to animals at some point - it was starting to border on offensive, considering how much the likeness inevitably came to Brandon’s mind - but when Bruce got up from the couch with a jump and made his way to the kitchen, the man reminded Brandon of a cat seeking attention. Except that maybe Brandon would've liked a cat's company much better.

Brandon kept ignoring Bruce as he made his dinner, a ham sandwich on the menu that night considering it was quick and easy to make. He wasn't really surprised when Bruce finally said something.

"Bad day at work, doll?" 

Despite himself, Brandon felt the odd sensation which had been coiling in his stomach tug a little harder at the pet name. Well, his cock was clearly interested in the way Bruce spoke in what sounded almost like a purr.

"None of your business."

Out of the corner of his eyes, Brandon noticed the Scotsman's eyebrows rising for a second, before his icy blue gaze narrowed. He tried not to think of what would come next, already knowing that look too well considering the little time he’d spent with Bruce. 

He would just keep hoping he'd be able to eat his sandwich and then go to bed until it was too late.

"Now, that's a wee bit rude, isn't it, sunshine?" There was that edge to Bruce's voice again, that tone which Brandon already knew meant he was planning something.

He took a bite of his sandwich, his eyes finally landing on Bruce for the first time that night, hating the way his body took interest in the other man - and really, where were Brandon's standards?

"I just said that it's none of your business, which is true," Brandon said with his mouth full, shrugging at Bruce and seeing a smile appear on the Scotsman's lips. _Uh-oh._ "So if you could just leave me alone..."

Bruce tutted at him, waving his finger in the air as if he was talking to a disobedient child. Brandon didn't like that one bit. "Is 'at how ye treat a visitor, doll?"

"You're hardly a visitor - you picked my lock and saw yourself in." 

Bruce rolled his eyes, moving his hands as if saying _“Same thing.”_

Brandon finished chewing. No, they were not playing that game tonight. "You know what? I'll finish this in my room."

Brandon realized too late how Bruce's eyes shone at that, how he made way for him to walk by him too easily, even gesturing for Brandon to pass. 

He only noticed his mistake when there was a hand grabbing his arm tightly, and Bruce was pushing him until Brand found himself bent over the kitchen counter. His sandwich had fallen from his hands with the brusque movement. Just for a moment, Brandon got angry at being manhandled like that, until he realized exactly how compromising a position he had stumbled into.

He was bent over the counter, one arm twisted behind his back and kept there by Bruce's grip, his arse in the air and right in front of Bruce. Slowly, he felt Bruce press against his back, his respiration picking up for a moment as his cock clearly took interest in the proceedings. 

"I ken what would help ye wee fit of anger, doll," Bruce whispered next to Brandon's ear, grinding his crotch against Brandon's backside - and suddenly Brandon’s mind was a jumble of _Oh god he's rutting against me._

It was hard not to gasp when he felt Bruce hardening in his pants. Brandon’s hope that Bruce wouldn't do anything was gone, while the hope that Bruce would finish what he had started swiftly took its place. It would be great to finally get what he so desperately wanted, after all the torture he had been put through, and he heard a chuckle fall from Bruce's lips as he started rolling his hips as well.

"Look at ye… Desperate for a cock up yer arse, aye?" 

A quiet keening sound left Brandon's mouth at that. Bruce's lips were now grazing his ear, nibbling at it lightly - just enough for goosebumps to form all over Brandon's skin. The hand that wasn't pinning Brandon's arm behind him held his waist tightly in place as Bruce started thrusting his hips more forcefully. "Tell me, doll."

"Yes," he said without missing a beat, pride thrown out of the window if it meant that there was a chance he'd get a good fuck tonight. "Yes, please. Anything.”

Maybe Brandon imagined it, considering the lust clouding his brain and his judgement, but he could have sworn that Bruce's breath hitched. And his hips, too, as if driven by desire not unlike Brandon’s.

"Hm, ye almost make me want to do it… To give ye th' fucking ye want," Bruce confessed in a whisper, a shiver running down Brandon's spine at the words. "Ah bet ye'd look lovely around mah cock, you wee pansy."

This time, Brandon did nothing to smother a moan, shamefully feeling like he'd be able to come from Bruce's words alone. His words, and the way he was grinding against Brandon’s arse, keeping a steady rhythm. 

With the hand that wasn't being held behind his back, Brandon reached down to undo his belt buckle and zip his fly open. He thrust his hand inside his pants quickly and stroked himself as he pressed the side of his face onto the cool kitchen counter, moaning at the feeling of his palm around his cock. 

This time, he was sure Bruce shuddered, his breathing breaking up for a moment at the sound of Brandon's groan.

"Too bad Ah won't." 

Just as fast as Bruce had been on him, he was gone, the presence against Brandon's back falling away as well as the grip which had been keeping his arm locked behind him. 

Brandon uttered a frustrated sound, his knees giving way until he came to kneel on the ground of the kitchen, his hand still moving around himself frantically as he felt his orgasm approach quickly. There was not enough shame for him to stop what he was doing and realize that he was jerking off in his kitchen, with _Bruce watching him_ \- he just needed to finish, to let his body relax after that stressful day, and so, he kept going.

He didn't expect to be pulled by his shoulder harshly, almost toppling over if the hand that had grabbed his dress shirt hadn't also been balancing him, until he wasn't facing the counter anymore. He looked up, took in the look in Bruce's eyes and shuddered. There was unmistakable desire there as Bruce looked down at him, his tongue slipping past his unfairly red lips to wet them. 

Brandon almost moaned like a first-class whore when he noticed Bruce's hands reaching for his own pants, lowering them just enough to let his cock spring free.

Brandon just stared for a moment, unable to believe what he was seeing considering Bruce had managed to hide his lower body from Brandon ever since they had first met. A wheezing sound, something between a laugh and a groan, fell from Bruce's lips, probably amused at Brandon's reaction. When a hand came to cradle the back of Brandon's head and gripped his hair, he understood what exactly Bruce wanted in a heartbeat. It wasn't exactly what Brandon wanted at the moment, not when he still wanted to know the feeling of Bruce's hand around his cock, but he wasn't complaining either. It _was_ better than being left to his own devices after all.

Brandon moved forward as Bruce tugged at his hair and wrapped his lips around the head of Bruce's cock without much ceremony, a thrill thrumming through his body at the choked-up sound Bruce made. He seemed extremely satisfied to see Brandon just go for it without being verbally commanded.

Without having to be told again - which he would probably hate himself for later - Brandon took more of Bruce into his mouth and started to suck in earnest, his hand moving around himself at the same pace his mouth was moving. Closing his eyes, he enjoyed the pleasure clouding his mind, everything else momentarily forgotten. 

Bruce's hand gripped his hair more tightly at that, his scalp burning with light pain and making Brandon moan around Bruce’s prick. Bruce shuddered and almost thrust into his mouth forcefully.

Brandon took note of how Bruce seemed to be holding back, even if he could feel the minimal thrusts of his hips as he tried not to straight-out fuck Brandon's face. Rather kind of him, which Brandon didn't expect at all.

Brandon opened his eyes at that and looked up at Bruce as he moaned around the Scotsman's cock again after a well-placed stroke of his own hand. He caught the way Bruce's eyes almost fluttered closed at the sensation, his mouth was hanging open with pleasure. 

This time around, he made sure to keep his gaze locked on Bruce as he tried to relax his throat and leaned forward, taking in Bruce’s whole length with some difficulty - it had been a while since he had last done that. He felt his eyes watering as he swallowed around Bruce, closing them again when he felt his nose and lips grazing Bruce's crotch, and soon the hand holding his head was keeping him there as a broken sound left the other man's lips.

"Oh, ye fucking-" Bruce stopped, his voice strained as Brandon started to choke.

For a moment, he was scared Bruce would just keep him there and let him choke on his cock for a while longer, but soon he was being pulled off completely. Sucking in a deep breath even as he continued to get himself off, he glanced back up at Bruce. The man looked completely lost in pleasure as he began to stroke himself fast and hard, holding Brandon in place where he was kneeling right in front of him.

It only took a few more strokes for Brandon to come, his lips parting in a silent moan as his body shook with the force of his orgasm. He could worry about the come on his kitchen floor later, the bliss of his release making him pliant enough to lean into the pull of Bruce's hand and blink up at him like he was the best thing in the world - which, in that very moment, was probably closer to reality than anything else.

He saw as Bruce muttered a quiet _“Fuck!”_ under his breath before he was coming as well, his face slack with pleasure as his come hit Brandon’s lips and cheeks - some landing on his shirt and ruining it completely - and made him shudder once again. 

They stayed like that in silence for a few seconds, measuring each other with curious looks on their faces, until Bruce's hand loosened and slipped out of Brandon's hair. Visibly hesitating, Bruce pulled away and fixed his pants to tuck his cock back in. 

At that, Brandon slowly resurfaced as well, the haze of pleasure coating his insides wearing off as he blinked a few times and swallowed thickly around the lump that had formed in his throat. 

He was kneeling in his kitchen, with his trousers open and pushed down to mid-thigh, his hand _and_ face come-streaked after giving none other than _Bruce Robertson_ a blowjob. As thrilling as it was, it also had the potential to become really shameful really quickly if Bruce chose to open his mouth.

To Brandon’s surprise, Bruce didn't. Instead, he just shot Brandon a look - one that Brandon wasn't exactly sure he could even begin to comprehend - before he left the kitchen and sat on the couch like nothing had happened, his eyes glued to the TV again. Brandon was completely ignored when he zipped his pants closed and got up on shaking legs - staying on his knees for so long seemed to have its downsides after all.

In return, Brandon didn't say anything either. Unable to get himself to care that he had only had a couple bites of his dinner, he went straight to the bathroom to take a good, hot shower and get himself to sleep early that night, Friday evening or not. 

After all the little frustrations of the week and now this utterly surprising turn of events, he felt like he deserved some rest. No, not some rest. _All_ the rest, and then some more.

**Author's Note:**

> Feel free to leave a comment if you liked it and make our day!


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